A maudlin post about grief and loneliness, with very little about travel...

Before embarking on this round-the-world trip my grandfather was diagnosed wtih mesothelioma, a type of cancer caused by asbestos, always fatal, with an average time from diagnosis to death of approximately 12 months. It was a huge shock for everyone, especially as my pa had always been so healthy, even at 80 years old he was gardening and lifting with the strength of men half his age.

I immediately postponed my departure in order to spend some quality time with him, which made him angry, and he said he didn't want me changing my plans for him, but at the same time I think he was glad that I was around for a bit longer... He was an incredibly selfless man and he told me that he wanted me to follow my dreams and do what I loved. He loved to get involved in my travels, and would advise me where I should and shouldn't go. My mum, while an incredibly intelligent woman, is less geographically aware than her father, and when she informed him (erroneously) that I was planning on going to Venezuela (it was actually Guatemala!) he came to me, concerned. 'I don't think you should go there, love... It's not very stable politically at the moment.' He loved to hear about places that I had been, and places that I was planning to go, and when I was trying to put together my itinerary he went into his study and gave me piles and piles of maps of South and Central America, lovingly collected over decades of subscribing to National Geographic.

He never dreamed of travelling the globe, like I did. His dream was his family, and he lived it fully. But his interest in other cultures, other languages, other places, meant that he was able to share my travels in a way that few other people in Australia could. And he followed my adventrued faithfully like the proud grandfather he was, reading my blogs, in the end listening to them as my mum would read them aloud to him.

He was so proud of his travelling granddaughter, and when I went to Poland to learn Polish he called me every week, and loved sharing stories from his childhood. In Poland I lived in an apartment that was only a couple of blocks from where he grew up. To be honest, I think he would have loved for me to be happily settled with a husband and kids closer to home, but more than anything he wanted me to be happy. He never once indicated disappointment in me, only support and love and total acceptance. As a person who depends greatly on the approval of others, I was incredibly grateful for that, as I would not have been able to do what I have without the support and acceptance of my family and friends.

According to the values of society my Pa was not a rich man. He never really had much in terms of material belongings. He worked hard and sacrificed for his family. It was common for him to go without breakfast and lunch on payday, until the money went into the bank, but he always made sure he children had enough to eat. He had his house, and his car, but little more. As an immigrant without a formal education, he worked in a factory all his life. He was working class, a battler.

But to me, he was the richest man in the world. His family was everything to him. It was like his kingdom and he was our king. My cousins and I don't see each other a lot, mostly we don't have a lot in common. But one thing we were always totally united in was our absolute adoration for our pa. He was our hero. Truly noble, good and selfless down to the bottom of his soul, he looked for the good in everyone. He would go out of his way to help others, at times literally giving the shirt off his back.

He had it tough growing up as a child in Poland. After the German's invaded the schools were all shut down, and he took on the responsibiliy of finding food for his family. Every day he would sneak out of the city through back streets and walk through forrests and plains for 8km, then go by train out to the countryside where he would buy food at a farm. He would then take it back to the city the same way. If the train was stopped by German soldiers he would have to walk the whole way back, nearly 40 kilometres.

In 1944 he fought in the Warsaw Uprising, although he was still a boy then himself. His mother was tortured by the Germans. They broke both her legs in order to force her to reveal his whereabouts, which she never did. He was captured by the Germans anyway, and interred in a Prisoner of War camp, where there was a shortage of food and they were forced to do hard labour. His dad was also executed about the same time.

But despite all of this, he didn't feel bitter or hatred. His heart was full of love and forgiveness. He was truly one of the best people the world has ever known and noone knew this more than his family.

My pa died on Tuesday February 26th at about 4:30pm. I was sitting in Los Angeles airport when I found out, having flown from Guatemala City. I was trying to get home in time to say goodbye, but it happened too quickly. I guess that's a good thing. I would hate for him to have had to suffer any more than he did.


But I haven't felt like writing anything since. I made it home for the funeral and spent two weeks in Melbourne, mostly spending time wiht my nanna and my mum, amongst family. A week ago, I flew back to Guatemala to continue my travel. I didn't really feel like coming back, to be honest. In a way I think I resent it. It was because I was selfishly doing what I wanted and travelling the world, that I couldn't be with my family when they needed me, when I needed them. Sometimes I think that not being able to see my grandfather in the end was like my penance for choosing to travel over being at home.

I wish so much that I could have been there for him in the last few weeks of his life, so that he could be sure just how much I loved him. I know that Pa loved following my travels and that he would have wanted me to come back, but now I'm back in Guatemala, everything feels a bit hollow. I miss home so much my heart literally feels like it is aching in my chest. I can't seem to muster any enthusiasm for the things that used to be so enchanting to me... Ruins, churches, temples, nature... I feel like I've seen them all before.

I spend most of my days pretending I'm alright, and trying to be alright, but mostly I look at my watch and think about how many hours I have to kill till I can go to bed. I'm sightseeing, not to see the sights, but because it fills up the day and keeps me occupied. I miss the presence of my loved ones desperately.

Although I lost my grandpa nearly three weeks ago now, it feels so much harder now that I am alone away from everyone that I love. But I guess that is what grief is all about. You wake up and just pretending you are okay until one day you wake up and realise that it is true. For me, I just hope that that day comes soon. Maybe writing this will help. I certainly hope so, or else the remaining six months of my trip looks like it is going to be very long indeed....